The Howling Miller
Page 19
The police chief took the letters and went with the adviser to convince the postman to deliver them.
Piittisjärvi initially suspected a trap, but when the police chief stamped on the letter of reprieve with the official police stamp and sealed it with wax, the postman thought justice had triumphed and promised to take the message to Huttunen. But only if he could do it alone, with no one knowing where he would be going.
The police chief readily agreed. A vast plate of steaming pork hotpot was immediately brought to Piittisjärvi’s cell. He was given a packet of Saimaa cigarettes and after the meal, the village masseur, Asikainen, came and rubbed liniment into the patchwork of black bruises on his back, souvenirs of the police chief’s lead-filled truncheon. At dusk, the cell door opened and Piittisjärvi was let out to do the job he’d been given.
The police chief had organised the tailing cleverly: he, the farmhand Launola and Vittavaara followed the postman to the station and slipped through the woods as the old fellow made his way to Huttunen’s letterbox. Piittisjärvi kept looking behind him, checking to see he was alone, but even so he didn’t notice anyone following him. He went ahead, therefore, and took the letters to their destination, and then casually returned to the road.
As soon as Piittisjärvi had revealed the letterbox’s whereabouts, he was picked up, and unceremoniously returned to his cell. His protests were futile, but he did at least escape a beating this time, because the chief was in a hurry to get into position.
Jaatila and the villagers kept watch on the letterbox for a day and a half before the trap could snap shut. The starving Huttunen finally appeared around five in the morning to check the contents of his letterbox. The farmhand Launola, who was on guard, immediately ran to tell the police chief.
Huttunen approached the letterbox warily but, once he was convinced the forest was empty, he was emboldened to take a look. He read the police chief’s and adviser’s letters several times. When he understood what a fantastic offer they contained, all his anxiety vanished and, although he was exhausted, he could feel renewed hope and strength coursing through his veins. And so the trap had been sprung. Now the hunters lying in wait could strike.
Huttunen jammed the letters in his pocket and went to the crossroads. He took the ferry road, but he had barely time to go any distance before his trackers jumped him from both sides of the road. Taken totally by surprise, he was thrown to the ground and his hands and feet bound in a flash. The chief thwacked him across the back a few times with his truncheon so hard his shoulder blades rattled. Vittavaara brought up his horse and cart, and in no time the road was echoing to the old gelding’s hooves as it galloped towards the ferry.
Huttunen lay trussed up with the chief and Vittavaara sitting on top of him, lashing the horse. When they reached the landing stage, the gelding was steaming and foaming from having been ridden so hard. Silent and unmoving on the floor of the cart, Huttunen lay staring sadly at the sky.
News of the hermit’s capture had reached the village on the other side of the river. When the ferry berthed, a tightly packed crowd was waiting. Relieved and delighted in equal measure, the locals stared at the prize in the cart. They asked Huttunen if he still wanted to howl. Was he thinking of ringing the bells? Had he come to set fire to the church or rob the bank again, with a horse this time?
The schoolteacher Tanhumäki had brought his camera. The gelding was stopped for a picture. The teacher made his way through the crowd and asked Jaatila to take the reins so he could get a shot of the horse, the police chief, the cart and, in the background, its cargo. Huttunen turned his face away but Launola wrenched his head round. Huttunen shut his eyes as the shutter clicked. When the photo had been taken, the police chief handed the reins back to Vittavaara who lashed the horse’s crupper.
The hermit was driven to the station. The police chief ordered Constable Portimo to come into the cell with them. Huttunen was seated on the concrete bench next to Portimo. The police chief handcuffed the police constable’s left wrist to the hermit’s right. He only undid the prisoner’s hands and feet after that, and then went out of the cell, leaving Portimo and Huttunen sitting hand in hand. Jaatila looked through the peephole in the door and said to the police constable, ‘You stay there and look after that lunatic.’
The flap banged shut; the police chief’s footsteps receded down the corridor.
Portimo and Huttunen were left on their own. The constable said sadly, ‘So here you are, Kunnari.’
‘Accidents happen,’ Huttunen replied.
Next morning the police chief had the prisoner and his guard brought to his office. Siponen, Vittavaara and Ervinen were present. Jaatila handed Portimo a letter written by Ervinen, addressed to Oulu mental hospital. The police chief also gave the police constable travel vouchers for the train. Taking them, Portimo couldn’t help remarking, ‘Even a police chief should keep his word. It’s not fair sending Kunnari back to Oulu.’
‘Oh be quiet! The police aren’t bound by promises they make to the insane. Just keep your mouth shut and do your job, Portimo. The train leaves at eleven; we’ll give Huttunen something to eat first. You’ll both travel in the ticket inspector’s compartment. This man is your respon sibility, Portimo.’
Ervinen gave Huttunen an ironic look.
‘It’s been a long summer, and a lot of fun, Huttunen, but it’s over now. Speaking as a doctor, I can assure you that you will never have another chance to come and play the fool in this canton. That letter says that you are afflicted by an incurable mental illness, and will remain so for the rest of your life. You’ve howled your last howl, Huttunen.’
Huttunen suddenly started growling and baring his teeth. He ducked his head and flattened his ears in such a menacing way that the farmers and doctor backed away and the police chief took his pistol out of his desk drawer. A dull moaning rose from the hermit’s throat, his teeth glinted. With great difficulty, Portimo gradually managed to calm his friend. Huttunen continued growling for a long time like a wolf trapped in its lair, his eyes flashing with suppressed fury.
The hermit and police constable were driven by car to Portimo’s house, where Huttunen was given a last meal. Portimo’s wife had grilled some fish. She put fresh buttermilk, piping hot barley bread and good butter on the table. For dessert, there were pancakes. Huttunen and Portimo ate side by side, one with his left hand, the other with his right. The police chief impatiently observed the meal’s progress.
‘Come on, eat up. What on earth gave you the idea of making pancakes for a mad prisoner? You really didn’t need to go to so much trouble. They mustn’t miss the train. We’ve got to resolve this as soon as possible.’
The horticultural adviser Sanelma Käyrämö came in. She had been crying all night. She went up to Huttunen without a word and put her hand on his shoulder. Turning towards the police chief, she said in a broken voice, ‘And I believed this traitor, fool that I am.’
Embarrassed, the police chief coughed officiously, and then resumed chivvying the men. Portimo and Huttunen got up from the table. Huttunen clasped Sanelma’s hand in his left hand, looked into her eyes and then followed Portimo out.
Outside the police constable said goodbye to his wife. Then he led Huttunen to the shed, whistling for his dog. The grey spitz ran barking towards his master, jumped up and licked his face. He gave Huttunen, who had been forced to bend down by the handcuffs, a good lick as well.
‘For Christ’s sake, now they’re saying goodbye to their dogs,’ the police chief grunted impatiently.
Portimo and Huttunen were put in the car, the doors slammed and they set off for the ferry, where the fastest cyclists had already congregated. A dense throng waited at the station. The whole canton wanted to see Huttunen board the train for his last journey to Oulu.
The police chief asked the stationmaster if the train was on time and was told it should be.
‘Why isn’t it here then?’ Jaatila exploded.
‘Some trains are not as on time as others
,’ the stationmaster replied.
The train pulled into the station. The heavy steam locomotive came to a halt. Huttunen and Portimo were escorted along the platform to the ticket inspector’s compartment. They stepped simultaneously into the carriage. The train whistled and began moving. Huttunen stood at the open door, the silhouette of Constable Portimo visible behind him. The train passed before the crowd on the platform. Huttunen opened his mouth, and a tremendous howl rose into the air. Alongside it, the train’s whistle seemed like a feeble chirping. The carriage left the horrified spectators behind. The door closed. The shunt screeched on the edge of the rails; the train pulled away into the distance. It was only when the noise of its wheels had completely died away that the crowd started to break up. Constable Portimo’s wife left the station apart from the others, supported by the horticultural adviser Sanelma Käyrämö, in tears. The police chief got in his car and drove off. The stationmaster rolled up his green flag, muttering, ‘That was a bigger turnout than for the governor.’
CHAPTER 38
Word soon got out that Huttunen and Portimo had failed to reach Oulu mental hospital. Police Chief Jaatila circulated their particulars throughout the country, but no information was forthcoming about what had happened to the two men. Not even Interpol could find out any details of their whereabouts.
That autumn, the horticulture adviser Sanelma Käyrämö moved in with Constable Portimo’s wife as a lodger. They ate their meals together, which, by and large, were pretty decent ones, thanks to their economical love of vegetables. Piittisjärvi, who had time on his hands since losing his job as postman, took care of all the heavy lifting.
In October, Portimo’s grey spitz ran off … It disappeared into the forest. When winter came, its tracks were found in the Reutu marshes. It didn’t roam the woods alone but accompanied a big wolf, a lone male judging by the tracks. On nights when there was a heavy frost, the wolf’s plaintive howling could be heard in the marshes, sometimes accompanied by the melancholy barking of Portimo’s dog.
It was said in the village that the wolf and dog often came prowling round the houses at night. People claimed the horticulture adviser and the constable’s wife fed them secretly.
Shortly before Christmas, the two animals were found to have got into Siponen’s hen coop. All twenty of his chickens had their throats torn open.
When Vittaavara killed the pig he’d been fattening up for Christmas in Advent week and hung it, scalded and scraped, from a beam in his barn, it vanished overnight. The fresh tracks of a dog and wolf were found on the ground. The pig was never recovered.
During the winter, these shaggy beasts surprised Police Chief Jaatila and Dr Ervinen out on the ice of Reutu pond. The men were fishing at a hole when the dog and the wolf burst out of the forest and fell on them. The men would have been dead meat if they hadn’t managed to climb the pines at the edge of the pond. Growling savagely, the wolf and dog kept the police chief and doctor prisoner for thirty-six hours. The animals ate the food in their backpacks and nudged their thermoses through the hole in the ice into the water. The police chief’s right arm was frozen to the elbow, as was the doctor’s nose. They would have died in their frost-covered pines if a sympathetic lumberjack had not come to their rescue.
Mrs Siponen had acquired the habit of going to church every Sunday. Since she still claimed to be disabled, the hired man Launola had to harness the horse each time. The farmwife was carried straight from the sleigh to her pew in the church, where she sprawled out. She took up as much room in the front row as five parishioners, but everyone was happy to oblige the poor woman who couldn’t move a muscle.
One day, a raw-boned wolf and a tousled spitz attacked the horse and sleigh on the frozen Kemijoki on its way to church. The horse shied and broke its shafts, the sleigh tipped over, the hired man fled on the gelding, and the corpulent Mrs Siponen was left spread-eagled on the ice at the mercy of her attackers. She wouldn’t have survived if she hadn’t run for it on her short legs and taken refuge in the ferryman’s house. The tracks of the poor paralysed woman’s flight across the frozen Kemijoki excited unanimous admiration, especially among athletics fans.
The local men tried every way imaginable to kill the wolf and dog, but they could never catch them. They were too cunning and daring, and, what’s more, utterly inseparable. Together, they made a savage, terrifying pair. On icy nights, when the wolf’s heart-rending howls could be heard coming from Mount Reutu, people would say, ‘In a way, Huttunen’s howling sounded more natural.’
TRANSLATOR’S NOTE
This novel begins ‘Soon after the wars’, that is to say, shortly after the Second World War, which was marked in Finland by two wars against the USSR.
In November 1939, when Finland refused to grant the USSR strategic bases for its defence of Kronstadt and Leningrad, the Soviets bombed Helsinki. This was the start of the ‘Winter War’, which lasted one hundred and five days and resulted in heavy losses on both sides. Despite courageous resistance north of Lake Ladoga and along the Oulu–Suomussalmi line, Finland was compelled by the Treaty of Moscow to cede part of Karelia and Lapland to the Soviet Union.
In June 1941, after allowing the transit of supplies to German troops in Norway, Finland was led to agree to cooperate militarily with the Third Reich against the USSR. It thereby embarked on the ‘War of Continuation’ and fought to regain its lost territory until the withdrawal of the Wehrmacht in August 1944, which left the Ladoga front exposed and drove Finland to open peace negotiations. Finland signed an armistice with the USSR, which required it to pay substantial reparations, return to the borders of 1940 and break off relations with Germany.
The Finnish troops then turned on the German units stationed in Lapland, which systematically devastated the region during their retreat; fighting continued there until April 1945.
Anne Colin du Terrail, 1991
Other books by Arto Paasilinna published in English
The Year of the Hare
About the Author
THE HOWLING
MILLER
Arto Paasilinna was born in Lapland in 1942. By turns a woodcutter, agricultural labourer, journalist and poet, he is the author of over twenty novels, all of which have been translated into numerous languages.
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2007 by
Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street,
Edinburgh, EH1 1TE
Published in France as Le meunier hurlant
by Éditions Denoel in 1991
Originally published in Finland as
Ulvova myllari by WSOY in 1981
This digital edition first published in 2009
by Canongate Books
Copyright © Arto Paasilinna, 1981
English translation copyright © Will Hobson, 2007
The moral rights of the author and translator have been asserted
The publishers gratefully acknowledge general
subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards
publication of this volume
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 84767 753 2
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